Chapter 3: Satine's arrival
The laughter from the water was sharp and carrying. Charlie, who had been attempting to stealthily reposition his still-throbbing backside on the float, found himself suddenly encircled.
“You look tense, Padawan,” Shaak Ti’s voice murmured, warm as the sun on his right side.
“Like you’re carrying the weight of the galaxy,” Ahsoka added, appearing on his left, treading water with effortless grace. Her grin was all teeth. “We should help you relax.”
He knew that tone. It was the prelude to disaster. “I’m relaxed! I’m a puddle of relaxation. See?” He attempted a languid stretch, which immediately pulled at the tender skin and made him wince.
“Hmm. Deceiving.” Shaak Ti placed a hand on the float. It stopped bobbing, held in place by an invisible anchor. “I think you require a more… thorough release of tension.”
Before he could paddle, their hands were on him. Not rough, but inescapably firm. Ahsoka grabbed one ankle, Shaak Ti the other. They pulled him from the float with a smooth, coordinated yank.
He splashed into the lake between them, sputtering. They didn’t let go. Instead, they spun him in the water, face-up, their grips shifting. One of Ahsoka’s hands locked around his wrist; Shaak Ti’s arm snaked across his chest, pinning him back against her. He was immobilized, floating in the shallows, held aloft by two grinning Togruta.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, a genuine tremor of anticipation in his voice.
“Hydrostatic therapy,” Shaak Ti said serenely, her montrals brushing his cheek. “Ahsoka, if you would?”
With her free hand, Ahsoka took hold of the waistband of his board shorts at the hip. She didn’t yank. She applied a steady, inexorable pressure, pulling the fabric sideways and up.
Charlie tensed. The material, saturated and heavy, began a slow, creeping migration. It dug into his hip, then his flank, a tight, rising wedge of damp cotton. He kicked feebly, but their holds were absolute. The wedge deepened, climbing, the seam finding a purchase it was never meant to have.
It was methodical. Agonizingly so. Ahsoka worked with the precision of a surgeon, adjusting her grip, ensuring an even, excruciating lift on both sides. The fabric strained. A high, involuntary squeak escaped Charlie’s lips as the final, central tug seated itself with perfect, awful thoroughness.
He was officially, impeccably, given a wedgie. Suspended in the water, held by his Master and his rival, the cool lake doing nothing to soothe the fierce, splitting pressure.
“There,” Ahsoka said, admiring her handiwork. “All the stress is concentrated in one place now. Very efficient.”
“Release it on the count of three,” Shaak Ti instructed, her voice a melodic hum in his ear. “One… two…”
They let him go.
He sank like a stone, the dragged-down weight of his shorts pulling him under. He scrabbled, knees to chest, pushing the fabric down from its intimate perch before surging back to the surface, gasping. The relief was instantaneous, followed by the flush of utter humiliation. Their laughter rang across the water, a duet of playful dominance.
On the shore, Padmé watched the entire operation, her lower lip caught thoughtfully between her teeth. The sight of Charlie, helpless and hoisted, then spluttering and red-faced, sent a warm, prickling thrill down her spine. She rolled onto her stomach, chin in hands, and glanced at Mon.
“Tell me again,” Padmé said, her voice low and conspiratorial. “The moment in the reeds. You said he was concentrating. Was he… was he touching himself?”
Mon, reclining beside her, didn’t open her eyes. A faint, catlike smile played on her lips. “His hands were on the rock. White-knuckled. But his hips…” She paused, drawing out the memory. “There was a subtle, unconscious rhythm. A pressing against the stone. Seeking friction. Or relief. It’s difficult to discern when one is administering corrective instruction, but the body seldom lies.”
Padmé exhaled, a shaky little breath. She watched Charlie now wading toward the shore, shooting a mock-glare at Ahsoka, who responded by sending a Force-powered splash that drenched him anew. “He wanted to. Even then.”
“Especially then,” Mon corrected gently, opening one eye to regard Padmé. “The pain, the shame, the authority… it’s a potent cocktail for a certain type of brash young man. It scrambles their usual circuits. Makes primal impulses louder.”
“You sound like you’ve made a study of it.”
“Politics,” Mon said with a light shrug, “is the study of power and how people react to it. This is merely a… more tactile field of research.”
Overhead, a low hum crescendoed into a steady thrum. A sleek, silver shuttle, emblazoned with the crest of Mandalore, carved a graceful arc against the blue sky. It slowed, seeking a landing vector away from the beach in a nearby meadow.
“The subject of our earlier discussion arrives,” Mon murmured, sitting up. “Let the field research expand.”
Inside the shuttle’s luxurious cabin, the air was cool, filtered, and carried the faint scent of ozone and Satine Kryze’s preferred minimalist perfume. It was a world away from the sandy chaos below.
“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” Satine stated, her voice flat. She stood before a full-length mirror, her posture rigid. The elegant gray travel robes lay discarded on a plush seat.
“It is a beach, your grace,” Riyo Chuchi chirped, her vibrant blue skin a shock of color in the muted cabin. She was already rummaging through a large, fabric bag. “Beaches require specific attire! It’s only practical.”
“Practical,” Satine echoed, as if the word were a foreign concept. She eyed the small array of garments laid out on the bed. Each seemed more absurd than the last.
Riyo held up a tiny, sparkling piece of silver mesh. “This one?”
“That is a dinner napkin with strings, Riyo. It is not attire.”
Riyo blinked, shrugged, and tossed it aside. She pulled out another. “This is cute!”
It was a one-piece, but in a shade of pink so vibrant it nearly hummed. The cut was high on the legs, and patterned with tiny, smiling Convorees.
“That is… infantilizing,” Satine said, though her tone held less ice and more weary amusement. “You are a senator, not a toddler.”
“But the Convorees are happy!” Riyo protested, holding it against herself. The cheerful birds stretched across her torso. She then produced her own choice: a simple, cobalt blue two-piece. The bottom was a modest cut, but patterned with little cartoon Fathiers chasing each other in a circle. “See? I have a theme!”
Satine pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache, born of sun and social interaction, was budding behind her eyes. “Your theme is juvenile whimsy.”
“It’s fun!” Riyo insisted, her large amber eyes wide and sincere. “Barriss told me it’s important to embrace fun. She said the beach is where Jedi go to… ‘de-stress through playful humiliation’. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds nice!”
Satine closed her eyes. Obi-Wan. This was his fault, somehow. The Force worked in mysterious, irritating ways.
Her own choices were limited. She had packed for a potential diplomatic incident, not a vacation. There was a severe black tank-style suit that looked like it belonged in an athletic trial, and then…
Her fingers brushed against a softer fabric at the bottom of her case. She drew it out.
It was a gift, long ago received and never worn. From Master Shaak Ti, after a particularly fraught joint-security council on Coruscant. The Jedi had said it was for “unwinding,” with a look that suggested she knew Satine never did.
It was a bikini. The fabric was a luxuriously soft, matte white, perfectly cut. The bottoms were a standard, respectable moderate cut—nothing scandalous. The top was a similarly structured halter. Its simplicity was its elegance.
And on the right cup, subtly embroidered in silver thread, was the emblem of the Jedi Order.
Wearing it felt like a statement. A concession. A surrender to the absurdity that awaited.
“This one,” Satine said, her voice quiet.
Riyo clapped her hands. “Oh, it’s beautiful! So clean! And the symbol! It says you’re friendly with the Jedi. That’s good diplomacy!”
“That is one interpretation,” Satine said dryly. She changed with brisk, efficient movements, draping her robes over a chair. The cool air of the cabin hit her skin, raising goosebumps. She faced the mirror.
The suit fit flawlessly. It was, admittedly, stunning. The white against her pale skin and platinum hair was stark and regal. The Jedi symbol added a touch of unexpected authority. It did not make her look fat. It made her look… carved from marble. Yet the very exposure of it—the baring of her shoulders, her midriff, the length of her legs—made her feel intensely vulnerable. It was a costume for a role she did not know how to play.
“You look amazing!” Riyo breathed, now changed into her cheerful Fathier two-piece. The cartoon animals wobbled as she moved. “So tall and graceful!”
“Thank you, Riyo. You look… very happy.” Satine managed a thin smile. She watched as Riyo did a little twirl, then frowned.
“Oh, wait,” Riyo said, peering over her shoulder in the mirror. “Are my bottoms straight? They feel crooked.”
They were. One side of the blue fabric was riding slightly higher than the other, caught in the cleft of her buttock.
Satine stepped forward without thinking. “Hold still.” Her fingers, cool and precise, hooked into the elastic of Riyo’s waistband. She gave a gentle, corrective tug downwards on the high side, then a symmetrical adjustment on the other, smoothing the fabric over the Pantoran’s slender hips. The action was maternal, clinical.
“There,” Satine said.
Riyo twisted, checking. “Thank you! Does your…” She gestured vaguely at Satine’s own rear. “...Does yours feel even? I can check!”
The offer was so innocent, so utterly devoid of any sense of boundary or taboo, that a startled laugh burst from Satine’s lips. It was a short, sharp, unguarded sound. “I… believe mine are fine, Riyo. But thank you.”
The laughter melted some of the ice in her spine. This was ridiculous. They were two grown women—leaders of planets—discussing the alignment of swimwear in a shuttle over a lakeside prank war. The galaxy had truly lost its mind.
The shuttle gave a soft shudder as it settled onto the grassy meadow. The engines whined down into silence.
Outside was sunlight, noise, sand, and chaos. Inside, for one more moment, was quiet.
Satine took a deep, centering breath, pulling her composure around her like an invisible cloak. She slid her feet into a pair of simple sandals. “Come, Senator Chuchi. Let us go be… diplomatic.”
Riyo beamed, shouldering her bag full of towels and sun potions. “Do you think they’ll have a welcome party?”
Satine gazed out the viewport at the distant specks of figures by the water. She could just make out a tall Togruta, a flash of ginger hair, a boy scrambling away from a splash.
“I have no doubt,” Satine said, her voice a low murmur of resigned amusement. “A very… hands-on welcome.”
“A very… hands-on welcome.”
The ramp descended with a hydraulic sigh, unleashing a wall of sound and light. The meadow’s tall, sweet-smelling grass brushed their legs as they made their way toward the beaten path leading to the shore. The lake glittered ahead, a searing blue mosaic under the twin suns.
“It’s louder than the Senate chamber during a tariff debate,” Satine observed, her voice barely carrying over the shouts and splashes.
“But it smells nicer!” Riyo said, inhaling deeply. “Like water and warm skin.”
Satine’s sandals were already collecting grit. She focused on the two figures reclining on a wide lounger up ahead, a small oasis of relative calm. Padmé’s dark hair and Mon Mothma’s ginger chignon were unmistakable.
“I see our welcoming committee,” Satine said, steeling herself.
As they drew closer, Padmé spotted them first. She sat up, a brilliant smile breaking across her face. She tapped Mon’s arm. Both women turned, their expressions shifting from relaxed amusement to genuine delight.
“Satine!” Padmé called, waving. “You made it!”
“And you brought Riyo!” Mon added, her keen eyes taking in the Pantoran senator’s cheerful attire. “This is a wonderful surprise.”
Satine reached the edge of their spread of towels, feeling the sun’s direct heat on her bare shoulders. “Senators. You requested a diplomatic outreach. Here we are.” Her tone was dry, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
Padmé rose, embracing Satine with a familiarity that momentarily bypassed the duchess’s stiffness. “You look incredible,” Padmé whispered, her eyes noting the Jedi symbol on the white bikini. “Master Shaak will be flattered.”
Mon greeted Riyo with a warm clasp of her hands. “Senator Chuchi, we’re so pleased you could join this… informal caucus.”
“Thank you for having me!” Riyo beamed, her amber eyes wide. “Satine said it would be educational. I brought four different sunblocks!”
“A prudent diplomat,” Mon said, her eyes crinkling. “Please, join us. The best view of the proceedings is right here.”
They settled onto the lounger and adjacent towels, a sudden council of elegant women amidst the sandy disorder. Satine sat with perfect posture, as if on a throne of silk rather than a velour cushion. Riyo curled her legs beneath her, instantly engrossed by the scene.
The chaos in the water had crystallized around a specific confrontation. Depa Billaba, having been the victim of Aayla’s towel-snap earlier, was now waist-deep, her dark eyes fixed on the Twi’lek Knight with predatory focus. Aayla, sensing the shift, was backpedaling with a defiant laugh.
“You have a very distinctive fighting stance, Master Billaba!” Aayla taunted. “All that grace. But it leaves an opening… here!”
Aayla flicked her wrist. A concentrated jet of water, Force-guided, shot not at Depa’s face, but at the tied string on the left side of her modest navy bikini bottom.
The knot held. But the distraction was enough.
Depa moved. She didn’t splash. She lunged forward through the water with startling speed, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Her hand shot out, not for a retaliatory water strike, but for the back of Aayla’s bikini top.
“An opening,” Depa echoed, her voice low and clear, “is often a trap.”
Her fingers hooked into the blue fabric. With a sharp, practiced tug, she pulled the tie of Aayla’s top completely loose.
“Hey!” Aayla yelped, her hands flying to her chest to clutch the untethered garment.
She was off-balance, distracted. Depa’s other hand, having sunk below the waterline during her lunge, now surfaced. It was holding the unattached end of Aayla’s own bikini bottom’s drawstring.
“And a trap,” Depa continued, a glint of pure mischief in her eyes, “should be sprung conclusively.”
She pulled the string, hard.
On the shore, the four watching women saw Aayla Secura abruptly disappear beneath the water’s surface with a colossal splash, yanked down by her own suddenly-loosened bottoms. She came up sputtering, clutching both pieces of her swimsuit to her body, her lekku plastered to her shoulders, her laughter mixed with genuine shrieks of protest.
“She pantsed her,” Riyo whispered, her voice a mix of awe and confusion. “In the water. Is that a traditional Jedi exercise?”
Mon Mothma took a slow sip of her drink. “It’s a traditional something.”
Padmé was laughing, a hand over her mouth. “Depa’s been holding a grudge since that business with the training remotes last month. I should have known.”
Satine watched, her pale blue eyes analytical. The sheer, undignified physicality of it was astounding. The calculation, the flawless execution of a humiliating maneuver under the guise of play. There was a brutal elegance to it.
“It’s remarkably efficient,” Satine remarked, her tone that of a military analyst. “Minimal effort for maximum psychological disruption. And it leverages the environment—the water conceals the initial maneuver.”
“You sound like you’re taking notes for Mandalorian combat training,” Padmé teased.
“Disarming an opponent takes many forms,” Satine said, her gaze drifting from the flustered Aayla to where Charlie was now watching from the shallows, a wary grin on his face. She remembered Mon’s hologram description of his earlier “instruction.” This was the culture. The boy, with his lanky frame and visibly sore backside, was clearly a frequent participant.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Charlie looked toward the shore. His eyes found the new arrivals—the regal duchess in white, the blue senator curled up like an eager child. He saw Padmé watching him, her smile knowing. A fresh wave of self-consciousness hit him. He turned and began wading determinedly away, toward a cluster of large, smooth boulders that formed a semi-secluded cove.
“He’s retreating,” Mon observed quietly.
“His morale seems diminished,” Satine noted.
“Oh, his morale is fine,” Padmé said, her eyes following Charlie’s path with proprietary interest. “He’s just regrouping. And he thinks no one can see him back there.”
From the water, Ahsoka Tano also noted Charlie’s retreat. She shared a look with Barriss Offee, who had floated over to observe Depa’s victory. A silent communication passed between them. Ahsoka nodded, then began moving, not after Charlie, but along a parallel course through the deeper water, using the rocks for cover.
The game was fractal, branching endlessly. A victory here sparked a new campaign there.
Satine leaned back, feeling the sun press down on her closed eyelids. The noise, the laughter, the casual, breathtaking lack of decorum—it was an assault on her senses. And yet, the warmth was leaching into her bones, the tight coil of perpetual vigilance in her chest beginning, incrementally, to unwind.
Riyo Chuchi’s voice, bright with curiosity, cut through her reverie. “Duchess? Your suit is so pretty and white. Aren’t you worried it will get dirty?”
Satine opened her eyes. She looked at the pristine fabric against her skin, then at the sandy, chaotic world around her. It was a lost cause. A beautiful, foolish, inevitable lost cause.
“Yes, Senator Chuchi,” Satine replied, a strange, soft acceptance in her voice. “I suppose I am.”
“I suppose I am.”
The resignation in her own voice surprised Satine. Before she could examine it, a new presence announced itself on the beach.
From the tree line, Luminara Unduli emerged. Her walk was a study in serene motion, each step a deliberate press into the golden sand. The deep green skin of her athletic frame glistened with a light sheen of water or oil. Her modest black one-piece was cut for function, but it did nothing to disguise the powerful, feminine physique beneath—full breasts moving with a soft, heavy rhythm, rounded buttocks shifting with each stride, the taut flesh of her thighs meeting with a faint, periodic sound of skin gently kissing skin. She carried a towel over one shoulder, her tattooed face composed, but her eyes held a quiet amusement as she surveyed the scene.
Her approach was a silent spectacle. Padmé’s gaze flicked over the Mirialan Master’s form, a flash of pure, aesthetic appreciation in her eyes before she looked away, feigning interest in her drink. Mon Mothma observed with the detached analysis of a connoisseur, noting the effortless physical authority. Riyo just stared, openly admiring. Satine, ever the tactician, recognized the unspoken power in such a form—it was a different kind of armor.
Luminara reached their patch of shade and spread her towel on the sand with a soft snap. “The aquatic exercises seem… vigorous,” she remarked, her voice a low, melodic counterpoint to the distant shrieks.
“They’re establishing a new pecking order,” Mon said, shifting to make space. “Depa just turned Aayla’s swimsuit into a liability.”
“I observed the culmination.” Luminara lowered herself gracefully onto the towel, folding her legs. The movement emphasized the curve of her hip, the solidity of her presence. “It was efficiently executed.”
Padmé couldn’t resist. “Speaking of efficiency, Mon was just reminding me of a classic. From the Lorrdian summit.”
Mon’s smile turned wistful. “Ah, yes. The servodriver incident.” She looked to Satine, her eyes glinting. “Your lecture on inter-core tariffs was particularly inspired that day. Right up until the magnetic gripper engaged.”
Satine felt the heat rise from her collarbones to her hairline. It was a slow, creeping blush, utterly beyond her control. Her pale skin betrayed her completely. “That… device was never conclusively traced,” she said, her voice tighter than intended.
“Oh, it was traced,” Padmé giggled, leaning forward. “We traced it to a brilliant, anonymous mind with a flawless sense of timing. And a love for seeing impeccable tailoring compromised.”
Luminara’s serene expression deepened into a knowing smile. Riyo looked between them, her blue brow furrowed.
“A gripper?” Riyo asked. “For what?”
“For the innermost layer of the Duchess’s formal leggings,” Mon clarified, her tone light. “It created a sudden, profound… upward rearrangement. Mid-sentence.”
Riyo’s amber eyes went wide. “A wedgie? At a diplomatic summit?” Her shock was pure, unadulterated. “But… why?”
“Why indeed?” Luminara mused, her gaze resting on Satine’s burning face. “Sometimes formality requires a punctuation mark. A… visceral footnote.”
Satine pressed her lips together, looking out at the lake to avoid their collective focus. The memory was crystalline: the shocking, precise tension, the impossible feeling of being hauled upward by her own underwear in front of a hundred dignitaries, the desperate, hidden waddle to the podium. The humiliation had been absolute. Yet here, years later, with the sun on her skin and their laughter not unkind, it felt… different. It felt like a shared, secret history.
“You handled it with remarkable poise,” Mon offered, a note of genuine respect in her voice.
“One adapts,” Satine managed, the blush finally receding to a warm glow.
In the rocky cove, Charlie had found a momentarily peaceful perch. The boulders formed a shallow cave, cool and dim. He leaned against the stone, gingerly pressing the cool surface against the seat of his shorts. The twin throbs—from Mon’s reed and the aquatic wedgie—were merging into a single, pervasive ache.
He heard a soft splash, too close to be accidental.
Ahsoka’s head appeared around the edge of the rock, dripping, a predator’s grin on her face. “Hiding?”
“Meditating,” he shot back, not moving.
“On the structural integrity of your shorts?” She hoisted herself up to sit on a low ledge opposite him, water streaming from her legs. “They’ve taken a beating today.”
“You contributed.”
“I perfected.” She swung her feet. “So. Auntie Mon. How many?”
He glared at her. “I told you, I didn’t count.”
“Had to be at least a dozen. Shaak Ti thinks fifteen.” Ahsoka’s blue eyes were analytical. “She said the spacing was textbook. No overlapping. Maximum sting coverage.” She paused. “Did you cry?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Her grin softened, just a fraction. “It’s okay. Barriss cried last month when Luminara made her bend over a console in the Temple hangar. In front of that cute mechanic from Corellia.”
Charlie blinked. “She didn’t.”
“She did. Twenty with a ruler. For ‘negligent droid maintenance.’” Ahsoka mimicked Luminara’s serene tone perfectly. “Barriss howled. Her nickname isn’t ‘Bare-ass’ for nothing.”
The shared confidence was a bridge. Charlie relaxed incrementally. “Why are you telling me this?”
“So you know the scale,” Ahsoka said, her voice dropping. “You’re on the board now, Charlie. Officially. You got the signature spanking from a Founding Senator. That’s not a minor league embarrassment. That’s a credential.” She leaned forward. “And everyone out there knows it. So you can sit here and nurse your credential, or you can come up with a way to earn a new one.”
He looked at her. The rivalry was there, but so was the challenge. The invitation. “What did you have in mind?”
Ahsoka’s eyes darted toward the beach, to the cluster of women around the lounger. “The new arrivals. The Duchess looks like she’s never had a grain of sand touch her. And the blue one… she seems… curious.”
“Riyo Chuchi. Pantoran. She’s naive.”
“Naive is good.” Ahsoka’s smile returned, wicked. “Naive means she won’t see it coming. And if we involve the Duchess… well, that’s a bigger credential. For both of us.”
Charlie pushed off from the rock. The ache protested, but it was a familiar fuel now. “What’s the play?”
Ahsoka leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper against the gentle lap of water on stone. The plan was simple, elegant, and relied entirely on Riyo’s innocent curiosity.
Back on the sand, the conversation had drifted. Luminara was describing a minor point of Jedi doctrine with Padmé, Mon was applying more sunscreen, and Satine was almost, almost relaxed.
Riyo, however, was still stuck on the previous topic. “So a wedgie,” she said slowly, as if solving a complex equation, “is a corrective action?”
“It can be,” Mon said.
“Or a greeting,” Padmé added.
“Or a punctuation mark,” Luminara reiterated.
Riyo nodded, absorbing this. Her trusting nature accepted the logic. “And it’s normal? Among friends?”
Satine turned her head, her blonde hair catching the light. “Regrettably, Senator Chuchi, in certain circles, it can be a… perverse sign of affection.”
“I see.” Riyo’s face lit up with a sudden, brilliant idea. “Then I should probably experience one! To understand the diplomacy better.” She looked around at them, utterly sincere. “For cultural context.”
A beat of stunned silence hung over the lounger.
Then Padmé coughed, hiding a laugh in her hand. Mon’s eyes widened behind her glasses. Luminara simply bowed her head, a tremor in her shoulders.
Satine stared at the Pantoran senator. The girl’s blue face was earnest, open, and completely, devastatingly guileless. In her mind’s eye, Satine saw the magnetic gripper, the sudden, intimate yank. She saw the phantom dessert droid. She saw a lifetime of composed suffering.
“Riyo,” Satine said, her voice carefully measured. “That is perhaps an experience best understood… theoretically.”
But it was too late. The idea was now a live thing, sparkling in Riyo Chuchi’s innocent amber eyes. She smiled, nodding, already scanning the beach for a friendly-looking candidate to provide her first lesson in this bizarre, affectionate diplomacy.
On the boulders, Ahsoka and Charlie shared a look. Their opportunity had just presented itself, wrapped in blue skin and wide-eyed curiosity. The game was waiting.